My video

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

“Uncle” is an honorable title, originally defining one’s position in a family, as new generations are born. But, eventually, the title is really one that is earned, becoming a position of trust, a special niche in the life of a child, growing up, coming of age, moving into adulthood, and beyond. Not every man earns the title of “uncle”.

The special men who were uncles in my life were always larger than life, holding a place near to my heart. They were there at special times, sometimes being the giver of presents. Yet, the real value was in their presence, their strong place in my life. Sometimes, they would offer advice. But, more often, they were simply there, being interested in me, and I felt their love.

They would tell stories, laugh, joke around with me, and with others in the family. They often would speak, often quietly, about values and morals, and the important things in life, such as friendship, and trust, and dependability. It was not only in their words, but in their actions, their kindnesses, how they went about their lives, raising their own kids, and taking time to raise me, once in a while.

My uncles offered me a haven, a refuge from the world. We would often sit in near silence with each other, as I took in their quiet strength, their strength of character, their availability to me.

No question was stupid, no remark considered inane, or immature. Where I was at in life was just that, where I was at. And, if I needed advice, I could ask. There was no laughter in the asking, and no sassy remarks about my questions, or my worries.

The advice was often wrapped up into a story, an anecdote about their experiences, their struggles. Often, they laughed at what they did, and how they got through something that was bothering them. And, in that telling, and that laughter, there was deep wisdom, and compassion for where I was at, and what I needed. Many lessons were taught that way, in story and in experience, and I listened hard.

And, when they hugged me, it often wasn’t about their strong arms wrapped around me, or the pat on the back, or the strong handshakes. It was, instead, support, empathy, and brotherhood. I was accepted for who I was, and where I was going. And, in knowing I wasn’t the first one to walk along that path, and climb over those obstacles. They’d faced all that too, and more. And, they’d lived to tell the tale, and to move on with their lives.

If they could do all that, and joke and smile about how tough that journey was, and all that they had learned, then I could walk that walk, too.

It wasn’t like they were being my dad, and playing the fatherly role. I needed that, too, and I’d learned how important parenting was in one’s life.

But, the art of being an uncle is not in the fathering. It often goes deeper than that, still family, still mentoring, and rearing up, but in a different light, a different slant. The art of being an uncle is often practiced with some distance, some space and time. There’s more objectivity, more “over the long run” perspective to the conversation. And, a lot less drama, a lot less demand to get it right, right now.

Fathers are more impatient, more demanding of the instant change, the instant behavior modification in the child. They live in the same house, and want to get things done right now. Dads can often be expected to be on call 24 hours a day, so patience is not always a virtue for the parental figure.

Uncles are more forgiving, more patient with the process of growing up, of coming of age. They’re more willing to wait, and to be more hesitant, more cautious with their words, their counsel. Time is a big tool in the tool chest of the uncle. He’s willing to wait around, to wait until you ask, or until the time is right so that he knows you are really listening.

The older I get, the more I cherish my uncles. Their numbers dwindle over time, and the times of deep conversation and quiet advice become more rare, and more appreciated. They weren’t all that numerous in my life to begin with, and now that the gray hair in the family has moved to my head, I miss them more dearly.

In the last few weeks, one of the great uncles in my life slipped away from all of us, and moved on to another world. He came into my life when I became part of my wife’s family, about a third of a century ago.

It was a perfect fit. He’d never met a niece or nephew he didn’t love unconditionally, and open his heart and his ears to anything they needed in life. He’d pour out his love to any one of them, as needed and as wanted. His heart had an endless supply of all that was needed. And, so, marriage to one of his nieces was all that he needed to offer me the same, no strings attached.

And, soon, I was welcomed, with open arms, jokes flying, and his contagious laugh and endless string of stories lighting up all the times I had with him.

We didn’t need to talk much about how we liked each other. With him, all that was just something to be understood, to be taken for granted, just like his love. I sensed he didn’t want to have me try to define what was between us, or what he was to his family. With him, what was really important didn’t come out in words, anyway. He was deeper than whatever you tried to say.

Words and definitions and any kind of analysis would have just left him cold. That wasn’t his style. He was a man of action, of living life deeply and vibrantly. Life wasn’t to be defined or discussed, it was to be lived.

He lived a deep and rich life, loving without hesitation, and working hard. He gave freely, of his time and his passions, spreading joy and friendship throughout his ever growing circle of friends and family.

He slipped away from us last week, leaving us to retell some of his stories, some of our adventures with him. We remembered his laughter, his passions, and his deep, abiding love for us.

And, as I listened to those stories and those memories this week, as we gathered to mourn and to celebrate a well lived and rich life, I saw that he had taught all of us well in that art of being an uncle, of living a life of service and love. His craft of being the uncle was all around us, and his work in all that was learned well.

He was the master of all that, a master of the art of being an uncle. And, I am most thankful for all that he was and all that he taught to the world.

Saturday, August 4, 2012

At the end of the day, that time of simply being outside, in the sun of midsummer, taking in the moment, the quiet, there is space. Space for thoughts, for sorting out the events, the emotions, the experiences of the day, and giving all of that jumble time to breathe. All of that becomes sorted out, thought through, and given some rest.

In being with a friend, hearing their story, giving them the space in this thing we call time, to be given the opportunity to find their voice, to share their words, to show what is on their heart, and in their mind, is a precious gift. By being ears for them, they are free to give expression, to not be judged, to not be lost in the cacophony of chatter.

That is a precious gift, a gift we seldom give, and we seldom receive in our world of endless tasks, deadlines, meetings, agendas, and projects. How often do we simply “be”, and allow the sense of completion, of satisfaction, resolution of a task to simply fill our souls? How often do we listen to that sweet silence of realizing that we have completed something, that a task has ended, an experience has been completed, and be simply in a state of recognition of that event?

And, that gift of listening, of space, is often best given to myself.

After a long and arduous meeting, on a beautiful summer’s day, I found myself in a quiet park by a bay, alone at a table. I’d brought a simple supper and my guitar, and took off my shirt to enjoy the feel of warm sun on my skin, and the bit of a breeze coming off of the ocean, rustling the pine trees and the wild flowers. There was a bit of salt in the air, and that warm, mellow summer smell of dry grass and sun warmed dirt.

The jumble of all of the discussions, the planning, the decision-making, the politics of the group still bounced around in my head. Trying to make sense of all of that, and what I was going to do with the day’s experience, filled my brain.

Then, in the peace of that moment, and that quiet space, the ideas, the emotions began to fall into place, to be put in order, and, finally, to be given perspective. The cold beer, the cheese, the crackers, and the breeze on my skin brought me back to earth, back to the moment of this beautiful day.

Slowly, I began to be aware of the bank of fog just offshore, the nearly full moon peaking over the mountain ridge, the group of hikers starting out on a trail, simply ready for adventure. I could taste the age of the sharp cheese, feel the crunch of cracker in my mouth, and savor of bitterness of the hops of the beer. My fingers became eager for the feel of guitar strings on calloused fingertips, repeating patterns and the joy of learning something new, by feel, by intuition.

The noisy chaos of the day’s work faded now, my soul pushing it away, restoring my sense of perspective, my sense of what is really sacred about the day.

In that simplicity, I picked up my guitar, tuning the strings, bringing order to the guitar, to my experience, to the moment. Soon, old, familiar chord patterns and strums, making melodies, making songs, filled my ears. The conflicts from the meeting, the politics and the pushing and pulling of the meetings all fell away. My ears, released from all of that, now were able to hear the sound of pine branches and grass in the breeze, the distant call of birds, the slow movement of the tide across the mudflats, the thud of a paddle against the hull of a kayak, and the vibrations of the guitar strings.

Wristwatch time faded away, only the movement of sunlight across the table, and the guitar, and its dance with the tree branches above me were left. I became inside of the music, inside of the place, meeting up again with my soul, simply being present, quiet, at ease.

And, space opened up, space for me to simply “be”, to breathe, to experience this life in all its glory.

Driving home, I felt alive, complete, re-oriented with the sacred, the holy. All of the noise of the meeting had been left on that picnic table by the bay, alone with itself, left to disappear with the setting sun.

About Me

a photographer, and a student of the beauty of Tillamook County, Oregon. Also a writer, an artist, exploring the gifts of the Muse. I'm working on a book on mentoring young men, and fatherlessness in our culture.
all photos copyright Neal Lemery 2010-2013.